Distant Fires (12 page)

They were draped in a dark colour that covered all but their faces. The elder one had pale skin, and wore a tired smile.   
 

Placing the lamp on a little table next to the cot, they began to talk to her in a language very close to her own. She understood that they were going to wash her, and silently allowed them to divest her of the rags.
 

But when the younger woman attempted to remove Shanata’s wooden deer necklace, the child snarled like a wild animal, wrenching her little body back with such force that the warm contents of the washbowl were overturned onto the woman’s lap.
 

Glowering and muttering under her breath, the woman retrieved the bowl, and attempted to gather her composure beneath the gaze of her superior. With an awkward lift of her drenched skirts, she departed the room.  No sooner did she leave than the older of the two relaxed—even smiled a little, perhaps admiring the spirit in so young a charge.
 

“You may keep your necklace, child, it will not be taken from you.”  She said firmly, in a language Shanata understood, as she placed the child’s hand into the washcloth. “We want you to bathe.”
 

With the return of fresh water, she again succumbed to their ministrations, allowing them to wash her. Still, she did not feel as safe with these people as she had with the man who had brought her here. He told her that he would be back, and she assumed he meant with her mother. She was very hungry, for she had been given nothing but broth in the intermittent times she had
been awake, and her small body ached, both inside and out. She wondered if she had done something to displease the Great Spirit, if this was a kind of test she must undergo in order to be brought to her mother. Instinct told her to be patient; she must not cry.  
 

Having completed the cleaning and dressing of her cuts, they left her a tray with a dish of thin gruel, which was heartily consumed, along with a cup of water. She then lay back for a moment, fingering her necklace, remembering, only vaguely now, the man who had given it to her...her father.  
 

When her mother spoke of him, she was often left with only indistinct sensations; someone who carried her in his strong arms...the twinkle in his dark eyes...an easy laugh...a low voice which wrought innumerable stories...          
 

Little had changed since the day her grandmother told her that he would not return. Often, in the dead of night, she would awaken to hear her mother crying softly, whispering his name. It was then that she felt the confusion. Why had he left them? Was that, too, a punishment?
 

She had never forgotten his words:
 

“This is the deer of your clan,” he had said, giving her the necklace. “When you look at it, think of me, and I will be with you again...”
 

It had made her feel so important. But then, he made her promise to walk in his Spirit beside her mother...that had been more difficult…
 

She remembered a dream during her convalescence, in which she had relived one of the festivals of her people—it was during the time when her family planted the crops of corn, beans and squash; the three sisters, as they were called. Her mother told her that they must pray to the Thunder Spirit not to burn the earth and that they must help, by giving the sisters all the water that they needed.
 

Then, it was late summer, and the crops were ripe. The family celebrated because the sisters had grown up. Soon it was next moon, and they danced in honour of the harvest, the life cycle complete. She could hear grandmother singing, “The three sisters are happy because they are home again from their summer in the fields!”  
 

If the three sisters returned forever and ever, and never went to the Spirit World, why, she wondered, did people have to go?   
 

Other images of family life presented themselves at random...the women carrying their crops from the fields in baskets made of thin splints of wood from the black ash tree, with a strap which they wore across the forehead…watching her aunt weave corn husks into summer slippers from the inner bark of the hickory and base wood trees...her grandmother’s sister spinning and
braiding cords for binding and carrying bundles...the games she used to play—her favourite, though she was never very good at it—the one where wild plum pits, painted black on one side, which were trapped in a wooden bowl, making the stones land with different sides up, until the player with the most landing either dark or light side up was the winner... She had been happy, for she had won that last game with her cousin, Malagwe. She thought of the winter fun...lacrosse, skinny snow snake. Games she often watched the young braves play…
 

A noticeably drier novice re-entered, characteristically austere in her manner. She purposefully crossed to the bed, motioning to Shanata to raise her arms, whereupon a dark, foreign article of clothing was harshly pulled over her shoulders to cover her nakedness. It felt stiff and uncomfortable—not at all like the soft buckskin she was used to wearing, but she realised it would not do to object.
 

They must be covering me to take me to mother…
 

Her little heart quickened. Anticipation mounted as the novice reached for her hand, and with a little tug, led her out the door.  
 

Passing through a dimly lit hallway, where nuns and patients whisked in and out of doorways, they arrived at an adjoining anteroom. She held her breath, eager to behold the warm, sweet beauty of her mother’s face, and to feel the security of her loving arms...  
 

A man, sitting on a chair with his back to her, came into view. She recognized him as the man who had brought her here. He had been talking to another old woman, when they arrived, and as he turned and saw her, he smiled with more force than feeling. She noticed that his face was clouded, burdened with deep concern. He, in turn, must have noticed her disappointment, for he said, “Do not fear, I have come to take you to another place...to meet a kind woman who is sad. I think she would like to meet you…”
 

Her heart dropped and she did not know how to respond. Should she stay with these covered women, or go on another journey with this man? Although they had given her food and shelter, she had no desire to remain with the sisters. She did not trust them, but a voice from within told her that the man might try to help her.
 

“Yes”, she uttered, with the dejection that comes from immense disappointment, “I will come with you to see this woman.”
 

Again he smiled, this time with a sense of relief. He spoke to the older woman a moment longer, and then, gathering a few bandages and miscellaneous items he had been given, bade Shanata follow, and went outside.
 

Gathering her weightless frame up into his arms, he mounted his ebon mare, and as she gazed down at the kindly face of the old nun, she silently prayed to the Great Spirit that she had made the right decision.          
 

Chapter 9
 

When they reached the Chateau de Ramzay, Nicholas immediately rode up to the stables, where a groom took their horse, and he lifted the little girl to the ground.  
 

“Nicholas... I saw you from the window.”
 

He turned. Alexandre Girald, the Giralds’ middle son, rushed from the residence.  
 

He was a tall, slender fellow of eighteen, clad in grey riding clothes; his thin, shoulder-length hair was tied into a queue, and he sported a slight limp, the result of a childhood injury.  
 

Since Nicholas had been posted to the garrison, they had met on numerous occasions and while Alexandre was something of a man about town with no true vocation, Nicholas had come to regard him as an intimate.          
 

“I was on my way for a ride,” he said in a solemn voice, failing to notice the child shadowed by his friends’ side.  
 

He hesitated slightly. “You will be pleased to hear that your Mother appears much improved today. Maman had a visit with her before breakfast, and they managed a little talk…” He gave Nicholas’ shoulder a reassuring squeeze, adding sympathetically, “I know of your fears regarding her...sensibilities, but the doctor was in to see her, and seems certain that the worst is over... In fact, she is up and determined to attend the memorial service, on the Sabbath. She told mother that she wishes to return to Quebec, as early as next week.  It seems that she intends to settle your father’s affairs, and return to France, in due course.”  
 

Nicholas was obviously taken aback by the change of events, but before he could voice his objection, Alexandre added, “I am aware of your concerns regarding her safety and health, and
share your grief and confusion. But may I say that, as a friend, I feel that you would do right to stand by her decision. It would be unwise to counter her desires at present. Give her time.”
 

Nicholas acknowledged the sense in this suggestion. What his mother needed above all, in her present state, was a plan; a focus for her life, one that would give her the will to pluck herself from the depths of sorrow.  
 

For his part, he had no desire to leave this country. He looked upon himself as a career officer, and in time, had come to love and admire the harsh beauty and hard-working, fun-loving people of this land. But although he had been preparing himself for an eventual break from his parents, following an end to their tenure, the unthinkable had occurred, and with it the fear of any further loss.  
 

Since the tragedy, the need for his mother had magnified, and he worried to think of the chasm between them... then again, perhaps he was being selfish.  Why not leave?  Other than his presence, there was nothing for her here. She was a lady. She needed the comfort of living on the continent... friends, a social life. Since his father died, he had not cried, though the need for it had been, at times, overwhelming.  Instead, the concerns for his mother loomed to the fore.  
 

Only now did he realize that he had inherited a title, “the Duc de Béarnais,” heir to a grandiose estate, a town, forests and hereditary lands. He could, in fact, be presented at court.
Strangely, he did not feel the least inclination. For, although his childhood years had been spent in idle luxury, the move to this colony had opened his eyes to a sense of loyalty and purpose he would not have found otherwise. Through it, he had become a man, and it was no longer possible to turn back the clock.
 

The child nudged the side of his leg as she drew behind him. During the course of conversation with Alexandre, she had ceased to exist. Once again, his problems notwithstanding, she had risen to the fore. He wanted to tell her that her future had been decided; that the truth of what had happened in her village that seemingly long ago night had been determined.  
 

The harbinger of this report was none other than his commanding officer Marchand, who, having arrived unannounced the previous day, was aware of the failed mission, and had learned from informed native sources that Charmion and the rest of his men had been killed.   
 

He was told that an Indian party, enroute to the village during the early morning hours, spotted the fire and sent for help. Not long after, they made an attack on the unsuspecting group as a number of canoes were attempting to embark. In the ensuing battle, all were slain, including Charmion. Through a strange twist of fate, revenge, it would seem, had been exacted, and from what they could gather of the carnage, there would be no further reprisal.
 

While Nicholas’ superior was not pleased with his peripheral involvement, the fact that he was not directly involved merely resulted in a tongue lashing and warning not to use regulars in affairs beyond their jurisdiction.
 

As to the fate of their little captive, the Captain, wishing to wash his hands of the affair, ordered Nicholas to deal with her as he saw fit. He could, he reasoned, have attempted to reunite her with, if not her family, at least her people, but he feared the eruption of further grievance and anger should her existence become known.  Relations were at an incendiary point, and if his noble efforts were to be repaid through a prolonging of retaliation, he would receive more than a reprimand.    
 

Therefore, her future was to be placed in his hands, and the expression on her face when he found her at the grey sisters convinced him she would be better off elsewhere.
 

He was not sure what to do next, but he knew that his mother was lonely and bereft, and that she loved children. Perhaps the sight of this small child might touch her heart, as she had, him. She might have a suggestion of her own, regarding the child’s future.          
 

He thought of the memorial service to be held in two days’ time; there had never been a funeral, as the bodies had not been recovered. It would be a day of mourning throughout the colony. Not only had he lost a father he valued—a kind, and helpful parent—but, the new
Intendant, Comte Leger, whom his mother had mentioned in her letter: A fine man and friend of his father. The loss to the colony was manifold. He wondered if Monsieur Leger had any relatives who might settle his affairs in Quebec...it seemed terribly sad to have none but strangers to mourn one’s passing...
 

Alexandre’s sister Sophie, older by a year, arrived from a shopping excursion in town. She bent from her carriage, wearing the very latest in fashion, which had newly arrived from Paris on the last ship—a Watteau style, loose-backed jade coloured dress of Bombasine, with lace bodice, and matching lace head-dress and fan.  Her compartment was overfilled with boxes, which were removed and taken indoors by the footmen. Though tall and striking in an unrefined way, she lacked finesse, and could be as brash and overbearing as Nicholas on many occasions—such was the case at a recent dinner. Although she often sought him out on his visits, for his part, he found her barely tolerable. He suspected that with his newly acquired title and inheritance, he appeared a little more interesting.